


Imperial White

by calenlily



Category: The Goblin Emperor - Katherine Addison
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:21:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21843601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calenlily/pseuds/calenlily
Summary: The wedding of Edrehasivar VII
Relationships: Csethiro Ceredin/Maia Drazhar
Comments: 15
Kudos: 105
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Imperial White

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alyoraShadow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyoraShadow/gifts).



The wedding of Emperor Edrehasivar VII was of course an affair overwrought with formality. Maia was compelled to wear full imperial white once more, immersed in white silk stiff with silver embroidery, his hair dressed with ivory - he’d asserted enough control over his wardrobe to insist on the dragon-scale carved combs of his aunt Thever’s gift - and strings of opals and pearls. The myriad layers that had been almost welcome, if encumbering, in winter’s chill were all the more stifling now that the warmth of spring touched the air.

He stood on the dais of the Untheileian, and the afternoon sun through the stained glass windows cast a rainbowed spotlight on him. The grand hall was filled to capacity with rows of courtiers; while the crowd was still intimidating, it no longer seemed the anonymous judgmental mass that had so overwhelmed him at his coronation. There were wolves among them, he knew, but there were allies as well.

The Emperor’s kin had pride of place in the front row: Idra with little Ino and Mireän, his sister Vedero, Arbelan Zhasanai. His young cousins were visibly excited; Idra and the older women were more decorously composed, but their smiles held real warmth. It was still incredible to believe he had living kin who did not despise him. Further back, dark heads stood out among the pale ones where Ambassador Gormened and Captain Vizhenka sat with their wives.

His attention turned from the crowd as his bride approached the dais.

Csethiro had once again foregone the obvious choice of lapis or sapphires; her ornamentation was instead of moonstones and emeralds, echoing the colors of her gown. The dark green silk was richly brocaded in silver and black and just a few threads of brilliant blue, the cut of the garment elegantly simple for all the fabric’s opulence. She carried a bouquet of roses from the Alcethmeret’s own gardens, snow white blossoms interspersed with those so dark a red as to appear almost black. She looked graceful and dignified, sophisticated as an empress should be, and far too good for the likes of his gawky dark self.

The Archprelate of Cetho stood between them, presiding over the ceremony, and Maia was glad that he had only to follow his cues. He swept the white velvet bridal cloak over her shoulders, swore the traditional oaths, held out his iron-ringed hand to be bound with hers, and so they were bound in matrimony before the gods and all the notables of the Elflands.

Afterward there was the lavish wedding supper, and a ball lasting long into the night. Maia danced nearly as many sets as he sat out, and, a credit to Csethiro’s patient tutelage, embarrassed neither her nor himself.

Midnight passed, and Maia was whisked away back to his chambers in the heart of the Alcethmeret and the care of his edocharei. He was bathed and perfumed, his hair unpinned and redone in simpler braids for the night, and finally left in only his nightshirt to nervously await reunion with his bride.

She appeared in the doorway, clad in a shift of fine lawn, the earthy scents of vanilla and amber clinging to her skin. Her face was composed, but her ears lowered. For all her poise, he realized, she was as inexperienced as him in this, and must be nearly as self-conscious.

She came to sit beside him on the bed, and tentatively placed a hand on his. He wondered once more, as he had fretted for months, how they were meant to do this: two unworldly virgins amidst the bed hangings and frosted glass panels that were all the dubious privacy the Emperor’s bedchamber afforded.

Instead, they talked.

Ever bolder than he, Csethiro broke the silence first. “White suits thee.”

Caught off-guard by that comment, Maia snorted undelicately in denial. “It makes me look all the darker.”

“The contrast is striking,” she insisted. “It’s a considerable improvement over the generations of emperors blending into their garments.” She gave a self-deprecating laugh. “I’m sure I shall only look washed out.” As she spoke, her hand trailed lightly up his arm.

His  _ left _ arm, and the loose cuff of his sleeve drew back with it, exposing the network of scars across his wrist.

Csethiro froze abruptly, and her blue eyes went brilliant with rage. “Who did this to thee?”

“My guardian, my cousin Setheris,” Maia explained, as stunned by the protective fury of her reaction as he had been by his nohecharei’s. “I was fifteen. It was an accident with a firescreen; he held me in contempt, and despised being pent with me at Edonomee, but he never meant to do such damage. He was more careful, after.”

Csethiro stood to pace the room. “Does he live?” she demanded.

“He does.”

“He should be gutted!”

“I will not have him at court, but I do not think it just to seek vengeance for so old a hurt.” She still looked unconvinced, and as if she wished to take vengeance personally. “I am pleased to have so valiant a champion, but my cousin is a barrister. I am sure he knows no more of the art of dueling than Sheveän would.”

Her lips quirked. “Very well,” she conceded, “I accede to thy will.”

She was a sword, Maia thought, bright and sharp as the sunblade. He was undeniably curious to witness her skill with a blade, for he could easily picture it, but it seemed to him that she hardly had need of one.

That notion brought to mind Idra’s words that his mother should have been a soldier, reflections on the restrictions of sex and burdens equal to one’s strength. How constricting was the duty he was binding her to, he wondered, this brave, accomplished bride of his?

“Dost thou want children?” he inquired. “I know it is inescapably a duty, wished for or no, but I would know of thy desires.”

She smiled softly, and came back to sit beside him on the bed again. “I thank thee for thy consideration. I do, as it happens. My two eldest sisters have been married for some years, and I’ve always enjoyed the company of their little ones. I do not want it to be the whole of my life, but … children would be a joy to me, and I look forward to educating them about the world.”

“That is good to hear,” he said. “I would not expect it to be the whole of thy life.”

“I did not think it of thee.” She hesitated. “I would offer my counsel, and my companionship, if thou wouldst have it of me. I am not only to be thy wife, but thy empress.”

_ Thou wilt wear the rank better than I _ , he thought, and,  _ I have trapped thee in this gilded cage alongside me _ . “Ethuverazhid Zhasan.” On the morrow all the pageantry would resume for her coronation, once the consummation of the marriage was sworn. The reminder of that duty still before them brought a resurgence of the nerves that had almost settled.

She gave him an assessing look, and stood again. She moved several steps away from the bed, and extended her hand to him. “Dance with me.”

Grateful for the distraction, he rose as well. He pressed a courtier’s kiss to her hand, and drew her into the hold they’d practiced. He was still intensely aware of the proximity of her body every time they did this, but the sensation had come to be less intimidating and more welcome.

She’d taught him four of the dances most popular at court: two with set choreography, and two without. He started into the steps of one of the more freeform styles; slow and close, it was perhaps his favorite of those they’ve practiced. He did his best to remember a decent repertoire of moves, but as his imagination faltered, she began back-leading subtly. He appreciated it; he would gladly have her dance the lead outright if it were remotely appropriate.

As the dance went on, the space between them slowly lessened. Then she turned in under his arm, threaded the fingers of her free hand through his hair, and raised her head to kiss him. The steps of the dance were forgotten entirely; they simply swayed together, pressed close against each other. He let his hands wander, wanting to touch more of her skin.

Then, finally, she drew him back onto the bed, and he discovered the advantages of having a well-read wife.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for giving me the excuse to revisit this lovely book. Poor Maia must be so touch-starved, Csethiro Ceredin owns my entire heart, and I desperately want a sequel. (But I suppose that's why fic exists.)


End file.
